


it was always burning

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Firefighters, M/M, psg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 15:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5169764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Pocho is a hot firefighter and Marco keeps accidentally setting his kitchen on fire.</p><p>Featuring appearances by worried den mother Maxwell and kung-fu Zlatan, lewd references to Biblical prophets and a big ginger cat named Eustace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it was always burning

**Author's Note:**

> Months ago I promised Luca that I would write Pocho/Verratti. Now, I planned to do a deep heartwrenching story of two men in love against all odds. 
> 
> Unfortunately, this is not this story.
> 
> This story is an excuse to have as much fun as possible under 2k words.
> 
> Based on [Pocho's commercial for Pepsi.](http://38.media.tumblr.com/661b96149ea6963938115647d068b1f6/tumblr_no8vzwxD471qg7n4xo2_500.gif)

 

 

 

The first time it happens, it’s unquestionably Marco’s fault.

 

He puts the pastry in the oven to heat up and then wanders off, distracted by the new FIFA game. It’s not until he starts smelling the smoke that he realizes he’s forgotten something. Then, the fire alarm goes off. And then the freaking oven is on fire and this will be how he dies, Marco Verratti, professional footballer for the Italian National Team, burns to death from his own stupidity.

 

Then, the door bursts open and a host of firefighters burst in to spray down his burning oven, wrestling the inferno into smoking submission, while Marco sits on his living room couch and tries to regain his bearings.

 

Seemingly satisfied with their work, the majority of the fire brigade in his house disappears just as suddenly as it appeared, leaving just one of them, standing in Marco’s doorway like some sort of benevolent angel in a fireproof suit. Slowly, his hands come up to his helmet and unfasten it, revealing the face beneath it.

 

And what a face it is.

 

Marco is suddenly uncomfortably aware of the fact that he’s only wearing the bottom of his pajamas, which are silk and have little footballs embroidered on them, as the very handsome firefighter looks him up and down, and offers him a grin. It makes his eyes sparkle and Marco didn’t know he was into beards, but he definitely is now.

 

“Are you okay?” The man asks, in weirdly accented French and Marco can only nod dumbly, hoping he’s not drooling in the middle of his crisped up apartment in front of the man who’s just effectively saved his life.

 

“You saved my life,” Marco wails, suddenly pathetically grateful and tearing up. The abrupt switch makes the firefighter flail for a bit, especially once Marco pitches forward to wrap his skinny arms around him. He can’t reach all the way around the suit so he settles for clutching his fingers into the tough fabric instead.

 

“It’s, ah, part of the job?” The firefighter mumbles, but makes no move to break the embrace. “Uh. Nice goal on Sunday.”

 

“You watch football?” Marco asks, teary-eyed, promptly overwhelmed that his hunky savior apparently likes the sport he’s dedicated his life to.

 

He swears, he’s usually more collected than this, but it’s not usually that he just escapes a life-threatening situation. He’s allowed some sniveling onto handsome firefighters at least.

 

Before the man can answer, Marco’s apartment is once again invaded. Maxwell stands in the doorway, looking nothing less like a concerned mother, Zlatan hovering over his shoulder, wearing what appears to be pajamas with his face emblazoned on them. It’s a very weird evening.

 

Marco reluctantly lets go of the firefighter as Maxwell sweeps him into a hug that smells of Calvin Klein and motherly love, and somewhere between burying his face into Maxwell’s shoulder and settling onto the couch at the Ibrahimovic residence, the firefighter is gone.

 

Marco doesn’t pout. Not at all.

 

 

*

 

 

The second time is not his fault. It’s not. It’s been a month since the first unfortunate accident and his kitchen has been entirely refurnished, except for the scotch marks on the ceiling.

 

He turns his back on the pan for a moment and then it’s burning. If this is some sort of punishment for buying the cheapest pans even when PSG just raised his salary, then he’s swearing off all cooking for ever and ever.

 

The smoke alarm does its job. Marco has the sense to go and unlock the front door this time, watching, detached, as the firefighters trudge in and hose down the fire. Then, he takes a seat on his couch and buries his head in his hands.

 

“So,” it’s the firefighter from before, Marco can tell even with his voice distorted by the helmet. “do you need a fire safety lecture or are you just going to promise to stay out of the kitchen from now on?”

 

Marco groans into his hands. The man pats him on the shoulder. It’s weird and raspy, because he’s still wearing his gloves.

 

About an hour later, Marco settles down for another weekend at casa Ibrahimovic. He wouldn’t have minded sleeping in a slightly smoky apartment, but ten minutes after the firefighters left, the door was blasted open, because ‘Maxwell was worried and Zlatan wanted to help’. Marco’s got his suspicions that Zlatan just wanted to kung-fu kick in a door once in his life, but he’s sleeping on the guy’s couch so he’s not going to complain.

 

 

*

 

 

The third time isn’t his fault. For real this time.

 

An old lady lives in the house next door. She’s very nice, and always offers Marco wrapped up candy from her purse and left over squash from her garden (which Marco then burns because that’s just his luck). Her name is Annalise.

 

Annalise also has a cat.

 

The cat is a big ginger tabby cat named Eustace and he looks a little bit like a furry basketball. He also likes Marco. A lot. When he can be bothered to roll onto his feet and saunter over for cuddles.

 

So, it’s the mystery of the century how Eustace ended up on the highest, thinnest branch of the willow tree in Marco’s back garden.

 

Annalise is crying and calling Eustace to come down, the cat is yowling in distress, and Marco would climb up himself, but he’s certain that the Mister would probably murder him with the sharp end of his glasses, so he does the only thing he can think of; he pulls out his phone and calls the fire station.

 

Hot guy firefighter turns up. Because of course he does. He’s not wearing a helmet or his fireproof coat. Instead he’s got on a plaid shirt, under suspenders. Suspenders. Hopefully he’s brought the hose, because something in Marco’s crotch just caught fire.

 

(that was so fucking awful)

 

“You again?” The firefighter asks, his voice a mixture of fondness and exasperation that makes Marco bristle, as much as it makes his insides all hot and melty.

 

“It’s not my fault this time, I swear!” he says and the man snorts. His eyes are really pretty in the early morning light.

 

“Sure, I suppose the cat isn’t yours either?”

 

“It’s not!”

 

The man just offers him another smile. It makes the corners of his eyes crinkle.

 

In a matter of fifteen minutes, there is a ladder where a ladder is supposed to be, and hot firefighter guy has just picked up Eustace off the tree. With one hand. Marco tries not to think about what that says about his arm muscles, because Eustace weights about twenty kilos. At least.

 

With Eustace safely deposited into Annalise’s arms, Marco and the firefighter are left alone in the yard. The silence is overwhelming. The man’s crinkly-eyed smile even more so.

 

“So, um,” Marco starts, “can I invite you in for some coffee? I mean, at this point you probably know my kitchen better than I do.”

 

“That’d be good,” the man laughs. “I should probably go to supervise, in case you decide to burn down your house making coffee.”

 

“Excuse you, I make myself coffee every day.”

 

“I hope the fire extinguisher is nearby then.” The man’s laugh really is delightful. It’s such a shame he’s laughing at Marco.

 

“That’s really mean. I thought all you firefighters were supposed to be wholesome and nice all the time.” Marco suddenly freezes. He’d facepalm, but there’s a coffee filter in his hand. “It’s… occurred to me that I don’t actually know your name.”

 

“It’s Ezequiel. Ezequiel Lavezzi.”

 

“Huh,” Marco says, “you know Ezequiel was my favorite prophet. When I went to Bible school.”

 

Ezequiel puts his head into his hands and groans.

 

“Is that where you learned to flirt too?” he asks. “Just call me Pocho, everyone does.”

 

“It probably explains why I’m so bad at it, Pocho,” Marco says, right before the coffee filter falls from his unresisting fingers onto the floor. Damn, but Pocho can move fast in those fireproof pants. One second he’s groaning at the table and the next he’s stopping Marco from saying stupid shit by kissing him. How kind of him.

 

It’s safe to say that Marco loses at least some of his senses the moment Pocho hoists him onto the kitchen counter and kisses him deep enough for his toes to curl.

 

A few minutes later, Pocho’s pants beep and he extracts himself from Marco’s face to pull out a pager. Marco takes the moment to admire his handy work, from the untucked plaid shirt to the ring of red love bites around his neck. Marco’s pretty sure his own cheeks are red with beard burn at this point.

 

Pocho’s face turns serious as he reads the words on the pager. Marco sees his opportunity and takes it.

 

“So, where’s the fire, Mr. Firefighter?” he asks, and Pocho replies by burying his head in Marco’s shoulder and laughing.

 

“You’re actually awful, why do I even bother?” Pocho says, and ordinarily Marco would be offended, but Pocho just groped his ass while helping him hop off the table. “You can’t cook, you keep making stupid puns and _stop making those eyes at me, or I’ll never leave!_ ”

 

Marco stops making the eyes. He does hand Pocho his phone so he can program in his phone number.

 

“It’s okay. I get it, duty calls. But, come for dinner tonight?” he’s really hoping Pocho’ll say yes. And that he’ll wear something other than the suspenders, because if he doesn’t, they might as well skip dinner entirely.

 

“That depends,” Pocho bends down to for a quick peck as he returns Marco’s phone. “Are you cooking? Because I’d rather not fight fires in my spare time too.”

 

“I’ll bring takeout and you bring the hose, we’ll see where the evening takes us,” Marco says between kisses. Pocho is backing away, but he also doesn’t seem like he wants to let go, so Marco follows and steals as many kisses as possible on the way.

 

“Is hose euphemism for penis?”

 

“Everything is euphemism for penis. Now go. The sooner you put out the fire, the sooner you can come back.”

 

Pocho steals one final kiss and walks out. The door slams behind him. The coffee machine starts smoking.

 

Which is weird, since Marco doesn’t remember turning it on in the first place.

**Author's Note:**

> Random notes on this fic:  
> \- Eustace the ginger tabby is a recurring character in my fic. Bonus points if you can find out where though. He's by far my favorite OC.  
> \- Maxwell the worried den mother is my idol. You've got to have nerves of steel to deal with Zlatan on a daily basis, much less the other idiots.  
> \- as for how he knew that Marco's fire alarm went off - they live on the same street  
> \- no suspenders were harmed during the making of this fic  
> \- if the first scene gives you deja-vu, think Sims 3  
> \- this is only the clean version of this fic. there's a director's cut too, with a 100% more pussy jokes  
> \- find me on [tumblr](http://neyvenger.tumblr.com/). I'm a delight.


End file.
